* * * *
A few days after Shanklin had called on him Seyton went up to the Hall to dine. He walked up in the near dark, the Hall little more than a formless sprawl of dark bulk against the western sky. Here and there a light showed from an upper floor while the main steps were held in a shadowy amber glow from the great lantern over the wide double oak doors. There was a flicker of pipistrelle bats from gloom to light as they hunted the early moths along the façade. At the top of the steps he hesitated a moment, amused but also knowing the touch of resentment in him that he should have to pull the great bell chain to gain admittance to his own house. Memory transported him to the far gone days when he had been too small even to reach its great wrought-iron pendant at the end of the thick chain.
Before he had even begun to reach for the bell pull the half door opened to show him Shanklin. Was the man so considerate of his feelings that he had set watch for his coming to spare him even a brief moment of bitterness? Probably, he thought. Shanklin beneath the eagerness and slight pomposity was a man of feeling.
A manservant, a hovering shadow, came across the large red and black quarried tiles to take his hat and coat and then Shanklin, enveloping him in small talk and charm, took him into what had once been his own father’s library and study. The old faded brown velvet curtains had been replaced at the mullioned windows with a rich, red damask worked with gold thread. Bookshelves lined two of the walls. To one side of the Italian marble fireplace hung the Gainsborough painting of the notorious Sarah Seyton . . . blue gown, a wide white sun bonnet hanging from one idle hand, her other hand resting on the head of her favourite lurcher, a mocking smile on her lips and a taunting, wicked look in her green eyes; wicked she had been and joyful with it, a red-haired enchantress in the true Circe mould.
Standing by the fireplace was—as he soon learned—the only other guest who was introduced to him as Sir Manfred Grandison, a large, bulky pirate of a man—a wooden leg and a black eye-patch all that were missing. In the place of a patch he wore a monocle, its red silk cord looping over the lapel of his dark grey suit. He was black haired and black bearded and his broad red face, time-creased and experience-scarred, wrinkled with a warm friendly smile as he was introduced to Seyton.
As they shook hands Grandison said, “Knew your father a little. Came down once or twice when you were young but you won’t remember me.”
“I do now, sir.”
“Oh . . .?”
“Well, not you so much but your car. It was a nineteen twenty-eight Hispano-Suiza ‘Boulogne’ with an eight-litre engine with Gurney Nutting coach work.”
“Dead right. Long gone now. God knows where.”
Shanklin, who was hovering, took Sir Manfred’s empty glass, asked Seyton what he would drink and as he went to serve them, said, “Sir Manfred is the political adviser to our Foundation. With our world-wide operations . . . all so complicated at times with political difficulties we are very lucky to enjoy his services.”
“Blah! Blah! Blah!” said Sir Manfred and gave a great laugh. As Seyton smiled, to his surprise Shanklin laughed as well, and said, “Don’t be deceived. We’d be lost without him.”
Sir Manfred shook his head. “Plenty of others as good as I am. And anyway, in this world, political advice is child’s play. Weigh up the pros and cons intelligently, make a decision—and then advise the opposite. You can’t go wrong.” He grinned at Seyton as he took his glass from Shanklin, and went on, “Too broad a statement for you, Seyton?”
Seyton shook his head. “I’d call it a smoke screen behind which to hide your talents.”
“So you can turn a phrase as well as a furrow?”
“Well, I don’t know about that, sir. But since I became a business man, and a successful one, much to my surprise, I’ve found that political forces mean little. If you want something then you must find the right man to buy or bribe. Not that I care for the condition much, but that’s the way you get what you want.”
“Oh, I feel that’s far too cynical,” said Shanklin.
“Not at all,” said Sir Manfred. “Never was and never will be. Man is a dirty little pig who just wants to make sure his own trough is always full. Any exceptions, and to be honest there are a few, are very, very rare. Just read your history. As it was in the beginning, is now and always will be.”
To Seyton’s surprise Shanklin, far from being put out, laughed and said, “Don’t be deceived, Seyton. Sir Manfred just enjoys putting a cat among the pigeons. But at heart he knows that there is an undiminishable longing in all men for that which is right, ennobling and virtuous.”
“The only thing I know about all men,” said Sir Manfred, “is that like sheep they can be led astray by any goat. That’s the first principle of all political systems—and the obiter dicta of many not so new religions and religious organizations. Always excepting the Foundation, of course, Seyton, since they pay me a very handsome retainer.”
Seyton smiled, enjoying the man, yet a little surprised that Shanklin clearly had the same feeling. Nodding at the painting of Sarah Seyton, he said, “I think she would have been on your side.”
Sir Manfred nodded. “Oh, yes. I know all about her. At one time I was almost tempted by your father to write a biography. But after a few talks with him about her I realized that—I was young and ambitious then—it would do nothing for my career. So I chose William Wilberforce instead. It sold one thousand and forty-nine copies.”
As Sir Manfred was speaking Seyton remembered how as a growing child he had been given modified versions of the notoriety of Sarah Seyton and to them, with further years, had been added the full knowledge of the woman, a hell-raiser, a rebel, a great beauty with the courage of a lioness and the morals of the barn yard; witty, cultured and fearless for her own neck or reputation, never to marry and lucky never to bear love child, and finally to take her own life as her beauty—or zest for life—waned, leaving behind her a defiant farewell note. Glancing up at her now as Sir Manfred spoke, it seemed to him that she looked down on them all with amused contempt.
They had dinner, not in the great dining hall, but in a room which he remembered as being his mother’s sitting room, a small octagonal chamber, lofty and elegant, the ceiling painted gold and blue and with a classical design of Venus imploring Vulcan to furnish arms and weapons to aid Aeneas in his fight against the Rutulians; and remembered how when a lad and had sometimes sat here with his mother, enduring some homily for misbehaviour, his eyes would stray when chance permitted to contemplate the half naked beauties of Venus, remembered too with a sudden waywardness the first time his own hand had rested on a breast as firm and round as any this ceiling Venus displayed to tempt Vulcan . . . that of the home farm manager’s daughter in one of the lofts over the stables.
They ate and the talk was light and stimulating, a little dominated by Sir Manfred, but amusingly so, and the food was good, so good that it was clear that the distress and want of the world which the Foundation fought did not cause them here to practise any monastic self-denial. Also too—with that instinct for marking the undercurrents in men’s designs which, always latent, had ripened tardily in him and contributed largely to his success in business—he realized that this invitation was not made from plain and due courtesy. He was here for a purpose as indeed was Sir Manfred who, clearly, despite his bombastic and amusing projection of himself, was acting in his official role as adviser to the Foundation—a role which, when they retired to the library for port and a servant came to call Shanklin away to answer a telephone call from overseas, the man wisely acknowledged quite openly with a big, bluff sea-captain smile creasing his face.
“We’ve been left alone. Of design, as you undoubtedly have guessed?”
“Yes, Sir Manfred. Shanklin is too sincere a man to be a good actor.”
Sir Manfred laughed. “Aye, but he has one or two invaluable qualities which we won’t discuss. But the point at issue is bluntly that you have thrown the cat among the pigeons by wanting the Hall back.”
“In my place would you have done differently, sir?”
“No. I happen to have a high regard for tradition and attachment to place. More than that, I regard such a feeling as grossly lacking in the world today—and part reason for the God-awful mess the world struggles in. But for this evening I just have to limit myself to my brief as adviser to the Foundation. You’ll appreciate, of course, that I have discussed this with Felbeck?”
“Yes. But I made myself very clear to him. This house is mine and I want it back and I am prepared to pay the price for breaking the lease. That is the very simple situation.”
Sir Manfred smiled and began to prepare himself a cigar after Seyton had silently refused one. He said, “Pray God, Seyton, that life always sends you complicated situations—they are so much easier to deal with than simple ones. If you get one girl in trouble that’s a simple situation, you think. But it isn’t. Get two in trouble at the same time, which seems more complicated, and you have no worries since not being able to do justice to both, you need render justice to neither.”
Seyton laughed. The longer he was with this man the more he liked him, but he was not fooled by his manner or his questionable, though amusing, sophistry. “I’ll remember that. But as for the Hall—there are no complications on my side. I want it. I’ve told Felbeck so, and I am prepared to pay the price. Surely all that remains is for the Governors to vote for or against?”
“And if they go against?”
For a moment Seyton made no reply, fingering his port glass, weighing frankness against obliqueness, and then, quickly deciding that no amount of soft talk would conceal his true intentions, said, “Then I’ll do my damndest to find some way—though God knows what.”
Sir Manfred, pursing his lips, smiled and began to polish his monocle. “You’re like your father. We were at Balliol together, did you know that?”
“No, sir.”
“What kind of way would you imagine you could find?”
“Well, given my recent successes in business I would say that if they voted against me I would find out the ones who were against my offer and then I would work on them. Every man has his price.”
“You’re a determined bugger, aren’t you?” It was said pleasantly. “How would you fix a bishop?”
“Sir Manfred—are you telling me that in the whole of history there has never been a bishop who was fixed?”
“Alas, no. Too many. In fact the two bishops on our Board . . . no, I mustn’t say that. You’ll probably get their vote, anyway.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Don’t let it raise your hopes. We’ve a general and a cabinet minister. You won’t get theirs. They both happen to be thoroughly disreputable men who are trying to achieve grace through the Foundation—they’ve reached that age when they worry about their immortal souls. Never a failing of bishops that. They know they’re safe.”
Seyton laughed. “I begin to doubt your qualifications as adviser. You give too much to the other side, Sir Manfred.”
“Don’t be deceived by words or appearances. The devil has many voices and many shapes. Still, there it is.”
“You think they’ll turn me down?”
“I don’t know. They will vote as each decides—aided a little, I trust, by my report of our meeting. You have no objection to that?”
“No.”
“But, in fairness, I shall make clear your absolute sincerity and determination to have restored to you what is yours. It’s a laudable ambition—rare these days simply because so few people ever find themselves in the position you are to say that cost doesn’t mean a damn. The clocks need turning back, and I think the time for this is long overdue and—between ourselves, my dear chap—I also think the world needs far less charity flung around and far more discipline and hardship to stimulate the true virtues which brought man down from the trees to stand on his own two feet. Sweet charity has gone sour. I say this in confidence which you are at liberty to break. Discipline. Hoc opus, hie labor est. As the inscription on the ceiling in the room in which we dined says.”
Seyton hesitated for a moment or two and then, deciding he stood on safe ground, said, “And you, Sir Manfred—are you worrying about your immortal soul? Or, perhaps like the two bishops, probably on my side already?”
Sir Manfred laughed loudly, the monocle popping from his eye and swinging to reflect the room lights. “Well, I’ll be damned! You don’t pick the easy fences, do you? A straight line across country. But you forget I haven’t got a vote.”
“You’ve got something more powerful than that . . . more persuasive. A voice which is listened to.”
“And what would you offer me in return?”
Seyton shrugged his shoulders. “I wouldn’t be sure. Not money certainly. You’d need something far more significant than that.”
“I might need that as well—but just what can you offer me in the way of temptation?”
“Well..Seyton hesitated, frankly lost and at that moment almost as though she were coming to his help, his eyes were held by those of Sarah Seyton in the painting on the wall. He went on, “Well, Sir Manfred . . . I’d make you free of all the family records, diaries and letters which we’ve never made public, so that you could write a life of Sarah Seyton and so forget William Wilberforce. And, in addition, I would make you a present of the Gainsborough portrait.”
Sir Manfred, face expressionless, put down his port glass deliberately and slipped his monocle back into place and then said heavily, “You are Satan’s disciple. Satan and Seyton. Now I really know how you went from country squire to an international business tycoon so easily and quickly. And, God help me, you have tempted me. But sadly, my dear boy, you have come many years too late.”
“A pity. You would have sold one hundred thousand and forty-nine copies and had a pretty Gainsborough and a name to rank with whom . . . Boswell?”
“Coarse sod.”
“Then Lytton Strachey?”
“Forget him. But, for the pleasure you have given me and would by your offer have given me, I promise you this. I shall present your case with a certain amount of bias your way. But think little of that. The Governors tolerate no canvassing. Until their votes are cast they keep their own counsel. And now, here comes the worthy Shanklin, so our matter is ended. I thank you for the refreshment your talk has given me. God help anyone who really gets in your way.” He looked towards Shanklin who had stopped just inside the door and, grinning, said, “You came back just in time. I was near to be taken up to a high place and sorely tempted.”
Seyton only stayed for a short while after Shanklin’s appearance and when the man returned from seeing his guest away he poured himself a large brandy in silence and then, his eyes on Sir Manfred, studied his face, clearly with concern.
After a while, and clearly unconcerned with Shanklin’s interest, almost in fact unaware of him, Grandison said, “I knew his father well at Oxford, but not much after. He was a hellion and a scholar—and what, I think, might be described as of a slow-burning temperament. But, by God, when too far a point had been reached it was like a volcano exploding. So too, I would say, is his son.”
“What did he say . . . his manner . . . well, your assessment, Sir Manfred?”
Grandison nodded to a small display cabinet for coins near the window and said, “Play the tape back and hear for yourself. The cheeky, clever sod.”
The tape was replayed and when it was finished Sir Manfred Grandison said, “What do you think of that?”
“He certainly handles himself well, as I said he could. But there is nothing he can do if he loses the vote.”
“He’s not the kind of man who accepts that he can do nothing. His mania is hard set. If he loses the vote he will try to find a way——”
“But what way?”
“None, you think, to be found? Have you forgotten clause seven in the lease? No Seyton property or tenancy ever let without it.”
“But that’s ridic——” Shanklin broke
off for a moment or two, and then went on, “That’s unthinkable.”
“So was landing on the moon once. But it happened.”
“I know, Sir Manfred. But anything that could be raised under that clause . . . well, all that has now ceased.”
“My dear Shanklin—time is not a straight line. It is a lake without limits where the ripples of every human act spread but never die. We only think they do because we have not God’s eye to capture their everlasting diminishment. And do not forget the Devil. He has a malign sense of humour.” He smiled suddenly, shrugging concern away, and raising his glass said, “I think we might in propitiation drink a small health to him with the plea that he stays on our side. No?”
Grinning boyishly, Shanklin said, “Certainly, if you think it will help.”
“Well, it’s a small gesture, but sincere.” He raised his glass and before touching it to his lips said, “To Satan, not Seyton.”
* * * *
Warboys, forgetful of the time, which was near midnight, was seated at his fly-tying desk in a corner of his bedroom—which overlooked the Embankment not far from the Tate Gallery and gave him a view of the river—when the telephone rang. For a moment or two he ignored it, not hoping it would go away and leave him in peace, but reluctant to come back from what in sentimental and rare moments he would have described as the haunt of coot and hem. The nearing month of April would bring trout fishing and his occasional days on the Test. With the high-powered angle-poise lamp low over his vice and looking like an eighteenth-century bibliophile with a pair of high magnification Bishop Harman spectacles perched on the tip of his nose, he was tying the last of a new batch of flies for the coming season. It was a blue dun which was a pattern supposed to imitate the dark olive and iron blue duns, though he knew perfectly well that, since Charles Cotton first mentioned it in 1676, it had never been satisfactorily decided as to which natural species he had intended the name to refer, there being no such insect as a natural blue dun. However, he did not care a tinker’s curse about that because he frequently caught fish with it. Breaking away from dubbing yellow silk with mole fur for the body he reached absently for the telephone and said, “Warboys.”
The Satan Sampler Page 6
